Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 8

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  It was very important, when planning a first-rate prank, not to tip one's hand too soon. Nonetheless, Sirius could hardly wait to put his plan into practice. It would be part of his happy honeymoon.

  Amaryllis, now Mrs Black—or Mistress Black in these parts—raised a skeptical brow.

  "You plan on us just walking into the Chantry and asking for the location of the phylacteries."

  "I do. A little caution will help, of course. We'll catch a priest off by herself and quiz her, and she even won't realize we've done it."

  Anders, despite their differences, was eager to help. Even fey little Merrill had agreed. Sirius had coached them on the confundus, unlocking, and disillusionment spells until they were N.E.W.T. perfect.

  "I like this," Merrill remarked in her sweet voice. "It's like being the wind. I can go everywhere, without a soul laying eyes on me."

  "Let's ask the Grand Cleric!" Anders pleaded. "She's always polite to Hawke. Hawke! Ask the Grand Cleric where the phlyacteries are! Pule-e-e-e-e-ze!"

  Sirius thought that a sound scheme himself.

  Amaryllis laughed. "All right. I'm not so sure she needs much more confounding, anyway. And what then?"

  Sirius mentally rubbed his hands with glee.

  "A lesson in switching spells, I believe. We'll replace the contents with blood from the slaughterhouse outside the walls. The Templars will be sick of looking for mages in stinking abattoirs, but I'm sure they'll do their duty!"

  "We'll have to revisit the phylacteries from time to time, as new mages are brought in," Amaryllis pointed out, still laughing. "We might even want to send the Templars in other directions."

  "Not a bad idea," Anders agreed.

  Sirius smiled his assent, his thoughts racing ahead.

  Of course, this prank was only prologue to the greatest prank of all. They must look for other places to shelter fellow mages, for someday, the entire Circle would vanish. It would vanish without fanfare, without warning, and with no means of tracing any of the mages. And then, one by one, the other Circles of the White Chantry would likewise vanish, to the bafflement of the Chantry and their Templars.

  Small plans did not befit a Marauder.

  Chapter 7: Cousland, Deep in the Wilds

  His head felt like he'd been on a three-day binge. Delicate strings of pain plucked at his chest. The sunlight as he opened the hut's door was nearly unbearable. Nonetheless, Caradoc Cousland stepped out of doors to face life after Ostagar allowing his expression to show none of his discomfort. His battered armor was on, his boots were laced, and he had even managed to shave. Morrigan followed him, her lovely face amused. As soon as he appeared, Alistair greeted him with relief and wonder, and Flemeth with sardonic triumph. Then the conversation grew heated.

  They were organizing his life very neatly, just like that bastard Duncan had. Use the treaties, forge an army, fight the darkspawn. They expected him to be in charge. Oh, and Alistair really wanted to call on his foster-father, Arl Eamon. Well, family was important. In fact, it was important to Caradoc Cousland, too. He interrupted all their tidy, self-congratulatory plans with a demand of his own.

  "That's all very well, but I'm not going anywhere without my brother Fergus."

  Alistair and the two women, one young, one old, stared at him in astonishment.

  "You put your personal agenda above the danger to all Thedas?" Flemeth smirked. "You disappoint me."

  "So sorry," Caradoc scoffed. "And don't tell me you don't have an agenda of your own, old woman. I don't know what it is, but I know you've got one, and it's something special. I never asked to be a Grey Warden, and so far I see no reason to think much of them. If I'm going to do this, I need a reason. That reason is my brother."

  "Hey!" Alistair huffed indignantly. "The Wardens died for us...!"

  Caradoc did not see recent events that way at all, but decided not to debate the matter at the moment. He had been forced into the Wardens under duress. Duncan had extorted his father's consent in the most unspeakably heartless way, under the direst circumstances. The bargain had been made that Duncan would see Caradoc and his mother to safety in exchange for Caradoc becoming a Grey Warden. As events fell out, Mother had stayed behind to cover their escape, and was no doubt dead. As far as Caradoc was concerned, the bargain was thus broken from the first, and he had no further obligations to the Wardens. He had only left because Duncan had slugged him and hauled him out by main force. He traveled with Duncan because he wanted to find Fergus and the Highever men. Together, they would take back their own.

  Once at Ostagar, without Fergus to back him, he found no support in trying to escape conscription. Ultimately, it was a matter of accepting the cup of tainted blood or being killed on the spot. The King thought it all simply "glorious." Teyrn Loghain was carefully non-committal, but Caradoc had sensed his deep reservations about the Grey Wardens. As he had never regarded the Couslands as political allies, however, the teyrn obviously felt there was nothing to be gained by contesting the issue on Caradoc's behalf. For that matter, Loghain and the King were already at loggerheads, and the result was the disaster that had taken the King's life, the other Grey Wardens, and half the Fereldan army. As for Alistair's view that the Wardens had "died for us," Caradoc thought that ridiculous, or rather, he felt the same could be said for all the soldiers who had perished. He and Alistair had been sent away to what was supposed to be a place of safety, by the express order of the King. Caradoc puzzled over Cailan's motives, now to be forever unknown. It had not proved safe at all, of course.

  There was much, in short, that he could have said, but he limited himself to the subject most important to him.

  "You want to find Arl Eamon. I hardly know the man, but I can tell you that the Teyrn of Highever is even more valuable. He can get the entire north of Ferelden behind the Wardens and the war against the Blight. I'm not leaving my brother in the Wilds." He turned to Flemeth. "You found Alistair and me in the midst of a battle. I'm willing to bet what little I have left that you know exactly where my brother is."

  "Caradoc," whispered Alistair. "He's probably dead! And he's just one man! You're a Warden now, anyway."

  Caradoc shot him a bitter glare. He had not known this fellow more than a few days, and somehow he expected Caradoc to choose him and the Wardens over the brother that Caradoc had loved and fought with since he could walk.

  "How many men are Eamon Guerrin? Where I come from, family matters! He's not dead. I know it," Caradoc said, narrowing his eyes at Flemeth. "And if his freshly killed corpse suddenly appears here, I will not be impressed. My brother is all I have left. Do what you like, Alistair, but I'm not deserting my own flesh and blood."

  "Such a stubborn lad," Flemeth cooed. "And if I were to bring you your brother, what then?"

  "Then we'd have a far better chance of success in fighting the Blight."

  "Hmmmm. I'll consider it. Perhaps... it's not a bad idea, after all..."

  Chapter 8: The Assassin, Marked

  Duke Prosper de Montfort and his pet wyvern lay dead at the bottom of the bluff. Dead, too, were over two dozen of his men-at-arms and and another dozen Tal'Vashoth renegades. Tallis shook her head.

  "It didn't have to be like this..."

  "Oh?" Tirion Hawke snarled, disgusted with such a show of empty compassion. "How was it supposed to be? They were just supposed to give you everything you wanted, with a 'Please don't kill us all, great and mighty Ben-Hassrath?' What was so fucking important?"

  His blood was up, after a wild fight against well trained Orlesian men-at-arms, a formidable Orlesian nobleman, and a bloodthirsty wyvern. Hawke and his people were all hurt—and they were lucky not to be dead. He was ashamed, too. Tallis had lured him into this bloodbath, and his price had been... cheap. A bit of adventure, the promise of a mysterious jewel, an elf girl's charming smile. Now here he was, guilty of the unprovoked murders of his host and a good part of that host's household. And for what?
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br />   Tallis had tossed him a jewel, paying him off like the sell-sword he was. Now he knew that she was not a fellow adventurer, but a committed member of the Ben-Hessrath, the political spies and enforcers of the Grendle people. Something really important had been at stake here, and whatever it was, the outcome had benefited the Grendle, a people against whom Tirion Hawke held a personal grudge. Not that he liked Orlesians: but Orlesians had not killed anybody he knew personally.

  Over seven hundred Kirkwallers had perished when the Grendle rampaged in the streets of Kirkwall: men, women, children; elves, dwarves, and humans; mages and mundanes. The Arishok, maddened by frustration and too much exposure to people he could not control, had tried to seize Kirkwall. He had nearly succeeded. Hawke had faced him down in the Viscount's throne room, and had handed over the wretched book that had caused so much death and suffering. Even then, the bloody Arishok was unsatisfied. He demanded Isabela, and at that moment Hawke had enough. He killed the Arishok and hustled the surviving Grendle off, telling them to take their crazy scribbles with them, inviting them not to come back ever.

  And now he had done all this murder today to benefit them.

  Tallis was studying him calmly, taking his measure, seeing nothing but a bas: a futile thing ruled by greed and lust; easy to manipulate. The knowledge of that stung... no. It burned. And then she told him what she had come for. Hawke felt winded. He gave it a bit of thought.

  "A list? Of Grendle agents? The Tal'Vashoth were going to give Duke Prosper a list of Grendle agents? I take it that they are elven, like yourself... or human?"

  "Some of them have family. How can I let innocents suffer? There has been too much death... too much suffering already."

  "Your agents could have sent their families to safety. Off to Grendle-land, if they think so well of it. Oh—that's right. You can't have families there. The Grendle have their state-mandated 'breeding program' instead." He grimaced. "Lots of 'death and suffering' indeed. Caused by them. I'd like to see that list."

  "Nope. This is going home. You've been paid for your trouble. Oh. And thank you." She turned away, dismissing the hirAstridg from her thoughts.

  She felt a slight breeze of movement behind, and turned, but not quite quickly enough. The poisoned daggers were in her kidneys between one breath and another.

  "A Grendle agent?" Hawke snarled down at her, as she lay dying. "Did you think I'd let you live? Even if I forgave you for your betrayal—which I don't—I would never spare a Grendle agent after what they did to Kirkwall. I spit on your bone-headed philosophy. I loathe your ridiculously rigid reduction of life to absurdity. I fucking hate the Grendle. Do you understand me?"

  Silence answered him. Tallis' green eyes were open and unseeing; filled with puzzlement.

  "Do you understand me?" Hawke bellowed.

  "Whoa, Hawke!" Varric soothed him. "She's dead! You're going to give yourself a stroke, yelling like that."

  "Fucking Grendle!" Hawke growled. "Let's have that list. I'll hunt down every last one of these traitors, I swear..."

  "I still say the Chantry is our real enemy," Anders maintained.

  "They don't sew mages' mouths shut. I say we go after the Grendle first, then the Chantry zealots."

  "The Grendle are in the north, on islands! The Chantry's right here!"

  Hawke shoved the list of agents in Anders' face.

  "And this says the Grendle are here, too! Right here! Spying on us! Bastards. We'll start with their man in Hightown..."

  Chapter 9: Speaking Truth to Power

  "Shall we sacrifice everything good about our country to save it?" asked Arl Eamon, concluding his speech to the Landsmeet.

  Loghain granted him some claps of ironic applause.

  "A fine speech, Eamon," he scoffed. "But no one here is taken in by it. We all know you seek to put a puppet on the throne of Ferelden!"

  The doors of the Landsmeet Chamber slammed open, eliciting excited talk and frightened squeaks from the nobles of Ferelden.

  Loghain saw his nemesis approaching. Young Cousland, in company with that insult to Rowan's memory who so resembled Maric. They were in splendid armor, and followed by their shifty crew of foreigners and outlaws.

  "And here we have the puppeteer! Tell me, Warden, how will the Orlesians take our freedom from us? What is the price of Fereldan honor?"

  The bastard reddened, but Cormac Cousland returned Loghain's glare without flinching. He wasted no time with insults, but instead used his clear and powerful voice to silence the room. He at last had the opportunity to defend himself, his family, and the Grey Wardens, and would let no one else—especially such a questionable ally as Arl Eamon—speak for him. The moment was his.

  "Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet! I stand before you as the last of my line: I, Cormac Cousland! I claim the right to speak before you, as my father, Teyrn Bryce, and my mother Teyrna Eleanor—whom some of you were once proud to call friends— are not here to speak for themselves. I claim to the right as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, to speak to you—a right given by King Maric himself. I claim the right speak as a child of Ferelden who was once a noble, until the night I found every man's hand turned against me. This man, Loghain Mac Tir, has made grave and baseless accusations against me. Am I to tremble meekly and submit to them, like a slave of old, or will I have a hearing?"

  "You have no rights! Traitor!"

  A clamor arose.

  Cousland laughed. "That word comes easily to your lips, Loghain! Is everyone who dares oppose you... everyone who dares have a different opinion... everyone who will not grovel before you then a traitor? Time was that there were such things as fair trials in Ferelden, but now, I understand, we all live or die on the word of the self-declared ruler of Ferelden! What need, then, for a Landsmeet at all?"

  A hush.

  Wulffe rumbled, "Let the lad speak, Loghain! He's Bryce's son, for Maker's sake!"

  He had allies. The Cousland boy had allies, and they were vocal in their support. Others simply wanted the excitement that such a spectacle promised. Loghain growled softly, marking the traitors for future retribution.

  Cormac ascended into the speaker's gallery with a measured stride and stood looking down at the crowd with contempt.

  "What are we doing here?" he asked. "Why are we not defending our country from the the greatest threat we have ever faced? For make no mistake, lords and ladies of the Landsmeet: we are not talking about foreigners who will dispossess us and enserf us, who wish to destroy our freedoms and our way of life: we are talking about mindless monsters who will kill every one us. Every man, woman, child. Every ox, ass, sheep, and goat, every bloody cat and dog. They will poison the land and lay it waste, and Ferelden as nation of Thedas will cease to exist."

  "That's what I've been saying all along!" Wulffe shouted. "No one liArvids, lad! No one seems to care that the south has already fallen!"

  "I care!" Cousland shouted back. "Though I grant that many seem oblivious. Instead, while the darkspawn rampage, we quarrel over privileges and precedence. Everyone of you should be in arms. Rather than gaming and wenching, your sons should be riding south. Rather than beggaring you at the market, your daughters should be preparing to fight for their lives. For that it is what it has come to."

  Arl Bryland was hot with shame, knowing that last dart was directed at him — and his daughter Habren. Cormac and Habren had never got on, even as children, even when he and Bryce had considered a match between them. Bryland knew he should have spoken up when Howe was given all of Bryce's lands and titles. He should have asked questions. His only excuse was at first he was engrossed with defending South Reach against darkspawn attacks. After that, like so many others, he was afraid. If Howe could murder the Teyrn of Highever with impunity, then who was next? Rendon Howe, supposedly his old friend from the Rebellion, had stood in the foyer of his townhouse and smiled at him coldly, describing the fate of the 'traitorous Cousland whores,' and then asked how Habren liked Denerim
. The threat could not have been more explicit had Rendon drawn his axe there and then.

  Rendon was dead now. Dead as Bryce. Dead as their youthful vows of friendship. Cormac had come to the Gnawed Noble to tell Bann Alfstanna that her brother Irminric was held prisoner in Howe's dungeons. His eyes had met Bryland's, and Bryland's had been struck dumb by the scornful look vouchsafed him by his young kinsman. What could he say? How could he excuse what must seem another betrayal by another fair-weather friend? Cormac had left without a greeting or a farewell.

  The clear voice went on: "Loghain accuses me of dealing with the Orlesians, All I can say is that I have not, and that I have not left Ferelden soil, except for the times I visited Orzammar and the Deep Roads. Loghain himself sent an envoy to the dwarves, and it is not my fault if the dwarves found me more agreeable than such an envoy. Next time, Loghain, send a man who does not insult the dwarves to their faces on their own doorstep!"

  The sally was greeted with some laughter. Loghain writhed inwardly, suspecting that it was all too true. Cousland then gave them some background on his activities for the past year.

  "...Thus, while the civil war rages, I have been gathering armies to defend our country. Not foreign armies, as Loghain would tell you. My armies are Fereldan, though they are composed of those who you would not welcome to your salons or your tables. The mages, the Dalish elves, the dwarves. It is they who have risen to this crisis. It is at their side that I will face the Archdemon; not, it seems, at the side of the rich and privileged."

  Loghain's face brightened with joy, and Eamon's fell into dismay. Young Cousland seemed determined to insult all his potential well-wishers. Young... naive... unused to politics. Did he have no idea how to play the game? Or was he too angry and full of disgust even to try? The latter thought crossed Eamon's mind, and he shuddered. His great plans were on the point of a knife, and Cousland seemed to care nothing for them. Alistair? He was liArviding to his friend with great complacency. Cousland had influence over him, Eamon knew; influence that Eamon was unsure how to counter. He was not objecting, not even displeased, as his friend put the crown at hazard. In fact, Alistair had been quite adamant against the idea of taking the throne... Eamon had dismissed that: the boy had been taught over the years that he should liArvid to his betters and do as he was told. Though, perhaps... he had also been taught never to put himself forward.